


seaside awakenings / to be touched as though you mean anything at all

by ilia



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Because it's Yuri when will he not think blissfully about killing someone, Detailing Yuri's time spent in prostitution, M/M, Morning After, Post officers-academy expulsion, Prostitution, Thoughts of murder / death, pre dlc canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:54:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24337735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilia/pseuds/ilia
Summary: Yuri awakens to an empty bed the morning after a job.
Relationships: Yuris Leclair | Yuri Leclerc/Original Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33





	seaside awakenings / to be touched as though you mean anything at all

It’s a remarkably tranquil way to awaken, with the smell of the ocean in his nose and the comfort of something supple beneath his head. In those first moments, Yuri might be anywhere, with whomever he pleases—or with nobody at all.

A stripe of sunlight creeps in from where the shutters are almost entirely drawn, tracing a line down the floor and across the bed. It illuminates the birdlike bones of his wrists where it falls upon them, a stripe of warmth upon an otherwise crescent moon body. And were Yuri anything beyond barely awake, he might follow it with his own eyes. Down the lavish, hardwood flooring that indicates a fine rented suite, along the tightly stitched threads of meager carpet that surround the bed. The whole thing is decorated so as to encourage the occupants to spend time in that bed and that alone, and perhaps for that reason alone Yuri was brought here. Time in bed he and his guest have certainly spent, until the mattress groaned and popped and until Yuri’s body was used, worked, ruined and left to recover once more.

He feels it now, the telltale ache in the sensitive parts of his thighs, trailing down his spine. It’s indicative of a thorough fuck, or as someone in Yuri’s profession might call it, a job well done. He expects to be paid well by his patron when the time comes.

But his time is not over just yet.

The sound of the shower runs in a small room to the side, and Yuri hoists himself from the bedsprings with the menial effort required of a man just clawing his scrawny body from the creeping chill of starvation’s pull. He is entirely nude; his ankle creaks from an old injury as it settles upon the bristled carpet at the bed’s edge, just beside one in a set of four garish, clawed feet.

His toes skim on the petals of flowers and silks of clothes as he walks. They’re such pretty trivialities: unnecessary in Yuri’s line of work, appreciated nonetheless. He knows he comes expensive enough without the gifts from a lover who will only last the night. However, he is as much human as he is a whore; Yuri's affections are particularly _fluid_ when he’s doted upon.

At the very least, it’s easier to pretend when that’s the case.

The flowers are peonies and roses in an array of saccharine pinks, and they have fallen everywhere. On the floor, lolling on the loveseat at the room’s edge, upon the fine wooden cabinetry strewn with their things: a bottle of lubricant, the string of real black pearls Yuri wore at the beginning of last night’s dance. Yuri’s fingers work through the items, scattering them, hardly sparing a blink as they too crash to the floor. At the room’s corner, there is a mirror, angled just _so_ , in case an occupant of the bed might want to look at their partner from multiple angles.

Yuri’s fingers trail along the outside edge. If he remembers correctly, which he always does, he can recall his partner craning his fat neck to glance in the mirror just the night prior. A smirk hitches at Yuri’s pretty mouth as his fine, clean nails descend the mirror’s frame. He must have looked ravishing.

Within the mirror, he sees a young man with lilac hair and hips that jut from the porcelain flesh that covers his belly, taut. He’s too gangly still to assume the part of a woman in bed, as much as he might like. To have the plump rear of a woman means better pay, kinder treatment.

Not that this one is bad. Not at all. But Yuri tires of the closeted old perverts who neglect his cock in the favor of chasing their own pleasure. That he rides old men for a living doesn’t mean he’s little interest in getting off himself—far from.

Just that he won’t be thinking of them when it happens.

Yuri turns from the skeletal figure that greets him in the mirror and makes for the shades instead. Along the way, he plucks up his robe. It flutters in the momentum, a form of silks and lace, dancing along the fuck-stale air as he wraps it about his shoulders.

Yuri grunts as he heaves the door open.

A balcony awaits him; beyond, the crashing of the ocean waves and the aroma of fruits and sand that can only belong to the Southern tip of Adrestia. In other words, it’s paradise to the visitors; to locals, or those who know of Yuri’s craft, paradise-adjacent. Yuri’s fine, pointed jaw rests upon the meat of his palm as he gazes out at the view, as the wind tousles his hair.

His eyes slip closed.

Here he feels almost alive, whole, in the fine harmony of water, air, and earth, and the fire he knows to swell in his own belly when the timing is right, when money is in his palm and he won’t have to put out for more for some time. The breeze traces the tendons in his wrists, rawed from the fat lord’s grip on them the night prior. Yuri would rather they sit back and let him do his work rather than trying to take control. But at least this one didn’t put up much of a fight. He paled in comparison to the bright way Yuri shines in bed like something wilting and deadened, something that has learned its place in the face of the blazing sun.

Beyond the precipice of his balcony there is another, another that sports a pair of curious peering eyes and hair black as night, a little girl. Yuri grins, and waves, and she waves back. He wonders if her clever, young ears happened to catch the fruits of his labor the night prior.

(He is certainly no saint, and is paid less when he is quiet. These fat, old men, they like to have Yuri’s pleasure known, like to think they can still satisfy a man in ways they have perhaps never been able to quite satisfy a woman.)

“Are you here with your family, too?” She calls out, clumsy little fingers scrabbling at the balcony’s edge closest to Yuri while she hoists herself up.

“Certainly, with my father.” Sarcasm sharpens the tip of his tongue. It is rich, and she will not catch it. She is little yet. Instead, she will remember the purple of Yuri’s eyes, perhaps. The movement of his hair in the ocean breeze.

“Why are you wearing a dress?” She points.

“Oh, this?” Yuri indicates the robe. “It’s no dress, little one. It’s a robe. And I wear it because my father requested it.”

The girl pulls a face. “That’s strange.”

“He is.” Yuri smiles, sweetly.

There’s the clamor of noise as an older woman resembling the girl almost to a pinpoint sticks her head to the balcony, grabs the girl by the shoulder and leads her inside without a further word. Yuri grimaces, attentions pulling away from the stranger’s area. He hasn’t missed the scalding loathing in the woman’s eyes as they met with his own.

He supposes to any adult, he looks every part the whore he is. Every part the whore his mother tried her damndest not to lead Yuri to be. Yuri’s arms cross over the harsh metal of the balcony railing, and he gazes out to the sea. The tide lowers with each salty washing wave.

If she knew now, she would loathe him, too. 

His fingers dance upon the perfect flesh of his opposite arm.

He can sense the footfalls long before he’s swept up in heavy arms. It would be impossible not to. The lord who took Yuri to bed last night is large, beefy. His unshaven cheeks grate at the sensitive flesh at Yuri’s neck as he is embraced from behind. With the girth, Yuri’s little frame is all but dwarfed.

One repressed, important man, and one whore with nothing to his name but a sharp mind, pretty purple hair, and the strange lines of a unique crest that glow between his shoulder blades when he summons magic to his fingers.

“Had me scared you’d left,” says the gruff voice in Yuri’s ear. Warmth shudders over Yuri’s flesh as he’s embraced, as he’s pulled backwards against the lord’s belly, as his thighs are held tight with one hand while the other grips at his chest. Yuri’s back arches of its own accord, something hypnotic and far beyond what the man deserves.

“I wouldn’t.” Yuri’s words lilt. “I still need to be paid, after all.”

The fat lord guffaws. “ _Madamme_ wouldn’t like you forgetting, would she?”

“My madam is of the impression that as long as my companions are left breathing, she needn’t involve herself.”

A hum. “Goddess, you’re such a sexy little thing.” 

Yuri can feel the lord’s cock between his buttocks. It slots between them as it fills. He closes his eyes, lest they roll of their own accord that he must defile himself again to escape this barbarian’s room. He leans backwards, and kisses the lord’s jaw.

Fingers trail along the length of ample neck. Beneath, he can feel the flutter of pulse. It drums a tattoo upon his delicate, manicured fingertips.

One day, he will not be as nice, will not smile and close his eyes and take it because he must take it to survive. One day he will dig his fingers into the fat neck and tear at flesh until they are soaked with blood, until this pristine room is defiled and stained and the gaping maw within Yuri’s gut has been filled with justice. One day he will strip out of his silks, take his money and leave this tranquil, leisurely paradise without looking back.

But today is not that day. Perhaps tomorrow will not be, either. Yuri smiles and flutters his lashes, and tells the gentleman that he knows. He leads the man back to the confines of the bed once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a dumb #aesthetic picture, and a thought I posted on Tumblr last weekend.
> 
> Say hi on [Twitter](https://www.twitter.com/iliawrites)!


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